“Right, then. The Korpikyla Slime. Nasty business, but nothing the Sundered Six can’t handle,” Roope ‘Fingers’ Niska declared, his voice echoing a little too loudly in the dank, barrel-lined cellar of the Rusty Flagon. He adjusted the leather gloves that did nothing to hide his inherent clumsiness, then promptly stumbled over an overturned crate, sending a cascade of empty bottles clattering. A blob of iridescent green goo, previously clinging innocently to a wine cask, rippled with mild annoyance. “Niska, you oaf! At this rate, the slime will die of old age before we even engage,” Hilla Varis hissed, her twin hand-axes glinting menacingly in the dim light. She was always ready for a fight, sometimes a little *too* ready, and often against the wrong opponent. Today, that opponent seemed to be Roope’s feet. Ilkka the Immovable, towering over them all in his burnished steel plate, shifted his immense weight, his gauntlets clanking. A faint blush crept up his neck, visible even under his helmet. “Perhaps a more… cautious approach? My Shield of Valon might falter if I’m… observed.” His defensive magic, potent enough to turn a charging Gryphon, often fizzled into a pathetic glow if more than two people stared at him. Or even *thought* about turning their heads. “Nonsense, Ilkka! Precision is key,” Päivi of a Thousand Curses swept her arms wide, a dramatic flourish that nearly knocked over a stack of firewood. Wisps of arcane energy, glistening like oil on water, coiled around her fingertips. “A quick burst of concentrated flame ought to… purify this infestation.” Jaskari Kempe, perched on a discarded stool at the back, meticulously polishing a new batch of healing salves, sighed almost imperceptibly. He really preferred the term ‘provisioner’ to ‘healer,’ mostly because ‘healer’ implied a preventative approach to injury, which his party seemed pathologically opposed to. His C-rank adventurer badge felt like a cruel joke. He watched Päivi’s preparations with a familiar, weary resignation. This was Korpikyla’s idea of a high-stakes mission: clear the tavern’s storage vault of mild, slow-moving ooze. “Just… aim for the big one, Päivi,” Jaskari offered, his voice calm, even. “And perhaps avoid the vintage Kråka’s Kiss. It’s surprisingly flammable.” Päivi ignored him, as always. Her eyes, usually sparkling with mischievous intent, narrowed in focused intensity. The air crackled. The slimes, sensing a change in the ambient mana, began to vibrate, a low, wet hum. “*Incendio Muta*!” Päivi roared, and a torrent of emerald fire erupted from her hands. It wasn't the searing orange flame Jaskari had anticipated, but a verdant, almost sickly green inferno. It shot past the largest slime, spiraled wildly, and then slammed into a cluster of smaller, unassuming blobs clinging to the far wall. The slimes didn’t incinerate. They bloated, swelled, and then, with a series of wet *pops*, transformed. Where gelatinous blobs had been, there now stood a dozen furious, acid-spitting, *explosive* hens. Their beady eyes glowed with malevolent green light, and they immediately began clucking aggressively, spewing corrosive bile in all directions. Hilla shrieked, a sound more of outrage than fear, as a stream of acid splashed across her favorite axe, pitting the gleaming steel. “By the Fangs of Karhu! What *are* these abominations?!” She charged, axes whirling, but the birds were surprisingly agile, dodging her wild swings before one of them dive-bombed her helmet, detonating with a sickly *squelch*. Hilla collapsed, twitching, her berserker rage extinguished. “My armor!” Ilkka gasped, watching in horror as a hen, perched precariously on a suspended keg, unleashed a volley of bile directly onto his chest plate. The metal hissed, bubbling and melting like soft wax. He tried to raise his Shield of Valon, but the sight of his friends disintegrating around him, combined with the sudden, overwhelming observation of *everyone in the room*, caused his magic to flicker and die. He stumbled backwards, a hen detonating against his exposed face. The armor, now a useless puddle, settled around his boots. Roope, attempting to sprint past the chaos, slipped on a patch of corrosive gizzard-wash and pitched face-first into a puddle of the stuff. His muffled scream was cut short as the acid began to dissolve his adventuring gear, then his very being. The clucking intensified. Päivi stared, utterly aghast, at the mayhem she had wrought. “Oh, dear. I believe I might have… over-mutated them.” A particularly aggressive fowl leaped at her, its beak dripping with caustic drool. Before she could cast another spell, it exploded, taking her with it in a shower of feathers and acrid mist. Jaskari, still on his stool, calmly observed the swift, total annihilation of his entire adventuring party. He was untouched, having instinctively raised a minor ward as Päivi’s spell went awry. A faint, almost imperceptible film of protective magic hung around him, keeping the poultry shrapnel and corrosive splatter at bay. He let the last angry cluck die down, the last hiss of dissolving equipment fade into silence. The stone room was now a grotesque still-life of molten metal, smoking puddles, and a few scattered, glowing green feathers. He sighed, a long, practiced sound. This was going to delay his afternoon tea. Jaskari slipped off the stool, pulling a small, intricately carved wooden amulet from beneath his tunic. He knelt beside what remained of Ilkka, his fingers brushing the melted armor. A faint warmth spread through Jaskari’s chest, like a perfectly brewed cup of *Pihlaja* tea, radiating from deep within. [Ukko-of-the-Second-Breath approves of your diligence.] He whispered a series of ancient, lilting words, words that smelled of damp earth and fresh snow. A ghostly, translucent form of Ilkka coalesced into being, whole and complete, before solidifying with a gasp. Ilkka blinked, disoriented, taking in his freshly restored, gleaming armor. “But… my armor was… and Päivi…” Ilkka stammered, mouth hanging open. “Minor setback, Ilkka. Happens,” Jaskari murmured, already moving to Roope’s remains, a faint, almost visible, green bile still clinging to his boot. He wiped it off with a practiced flick of his wrist. He repeated the ritual, the warm satisfaction of Ukko’s blessing filling him again. Roope materialized with a dramatic, choking cough. “I swallowed… I think I swallowed a *chicken*! And it tasted like… regret!” He scrambled to his feet, checking his now-pristine fingers. Next, Hilla. She reappeared with a snarl already on her lips. “Those feathered fiends! They’ll pay for scratching my axes!” She brandished them, ignoring the fact that her axes had been utterly dissolved moments before. Finally, Päivi. She materialized with a gasp, hair slightly askew, taking in the room with dawning horror. “My spell… it was supposed to be a cleansing flame! Not… not *poultry of mass destruction*!” As Päivi finished gasping, and the last of his party members blinked back to confused life, Jaskari felt it. A needle of winter air pricked between his shoulder blades. It was not the familiar chill of the stone vault, but a deeper, more profound frost. [One year. Make them worthy, or they never were.]

A Mild Case of Acute Disintegration